


Last One Out Of The Circus

by Tesserae



Category: SG-1 - Fandom, SGA - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tesserae/pseuds/Tesserae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How much trouble could one rubber ducky <i>cause</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last One Out Of The Circus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wojelah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wojelah/gifts).



  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [sga fic](http://users.livejournal.com/tesserae_/tag/sga+fic)  
---|---  
  
_ **New fic: Last One Out of the Circus (NC-17)** _

For the John/Cam Thing a Thon at [](http://community.livejournal.com/sg_flyboys/profile)[**sg_flyboys**](http://community.livejournal.com/sg_flyboys/)

Title: Last One Out Of The Circus  
For [](http://wojelah.livejournal.com/profile)[**wojelah**](http://wojelah.livejournal.com/)  
By: [](http://users.livejournal.com/tesserae_/profile)[**tesserae_**](http://users.livejournal.com/tesserae_/)  
Beta by [](http://frostfire-17.livejournal.com/profile)[**frostfire_17**](http://frostfire-17.livejournal.com/), with much thanks!  
Pairing: Sheppard/ Mitchell  
Rating: NC-17  
Word count: 5100  
A/N: Set on Atlantis during _Pegasus Project_.  
Icon from [](http://ubiquitous-girl.livejournal.com/profile)[**ubiquitous_girl**](http://ubiquitous-girl.livejournal.com/)

Prompt: uncomfortable empathy

  


*  
It starts with a room in a part of the city they haven't explored much. The room is light-filled and airy, and empty except for a single console and a box of little silver doohickeys. When Rodney gets the console fired up, it turns a sparkly pink color and begins emitting a noise John takes several seconds to identify as music. A moment later, a beatifically-smiling hologram appears and starts to make cooing sounds.

"Hey, McKay, looks like we found the daycare center," John says, grinning.

Rodney shudders eloquently and shuts the thing off with a forceful slap. "You were an only child, weren't you?"

John shrugs. He has a secret plan to teach the Athosian kids to play football, if they ever get a couple of days off, and if he can persuade someone at SGC to smuggle a couple of balls onto the _Daedalus_ next time it makes a run. And if the kids aren't busy harvesting something when all those other things happen. He sighs. Kids, yeah.

They cart the box of doohickys back to Rodney's lab and poke at the things for a few hours. There are five or six different kinds, blue and green and purple and kind of silvery, and they make John think of Easter eggs, except for the yellow one that looks like a rubber duck. Maybe they were put into the children's cribs to sing lullabies, or read nursery rhymes. Or maybe they just _bored_ the kids to sleep, like they're doing to John.

Of course, Ancient children, like Air Force officers, had to be pretty good at warding off boredom, so maybe the things sent out sleep rays.

"Sleep rays? What kind of TV were you raised on? Never mind, don't answer that." So John doesn't, earning himself an irritated huff and another two hours of "Touch this," and "Touch it again," and finally, "You're clearly touching it wrong!" Which admonition John - nobly, he thinks - also refrains from answering.

But as he finds out a week later, he _was_ touching them wrong. He should have been tossing the little things around – or possibly swatting them into the ocean with his golf clubs, all things considered – because when Cameron Mitchell starts juggling them during the infamous Pegasus Galaxy Carter-McKay rematch, they light up for him almost instantly. And that would have been okay, except that when John wanders into Rodney's lab to see how the combatants are doing (Daniel Jackson having fled the scene twenty minutes earlier, the coward), Mitchell yells, "Hey, Sheppard, catch!" and lobs one his way.

So John puts up his hand to catch. And once airborne, the thing – his favorite yellow one, he sees – powers through the full spectrum of colors on its way across the lab, and responds to its safe landing in John's ATA gene-equipped palm by bursting into a truly spectacular shower of purple sparks. A chorus of _stupid, stupid, stupid_ cascades through him as the sparks wrap long glittering ribbons around him, and he falls to his knees, feeling as if he's just landed a 302 or run a mile or jerked off, or maybe all three, in some weird combination of Pegasus Galaxy Love Songs for Colonels, call now – Wow, fight or flight, they're not kidding, he thinks, and keels over.

"Oh my God, he's got brain damage! Colonel! What day is it?" Rodney's voice is loud, and frantic around the edges, and John tries to open his eyes to say no, no, he doesn't have brain damage, but his skin feels like it's vibrating and he can't find his voice. He takes a deep breath and tries to remember what to do with it.

"Colonel?" Someone puts a soft hand on the side of his face and he hears a woman's voice. She asks John to open his eyes and he does.

And shuts them again, because there are three pair of worried blue eyes looking down at him, and that's two more than he usually has to contend with. He lets the first breath out in a great whoop and takes another one. The dry, coffee-scented air of the lab fills his lungs, and the feeling is so good he does it again, but the next one brings with it the first hint of a headache he suspects is going to get much, much worse. Shallow breaths, he thinks.

"Sheppard." This time the voice is low and unmistakably male, and it's got more than a hint of an apology in it. Mitchell, he thinks, and cracks open one eye. "Hey," Mitchell says, "sorry about that. You feeling okay?"

John stretches a bit and does a quick inventory. Nothing except his head hurts, but he's still got adrenaline running through his system, raising the hair on his arms (and other things too, he thinks, trying not to squirm, the soft cotton of his boxers as warm and heavy as a hand on his dick) and leaving him feeling like he can't quite catch his own thoughts. "I think so," he says. "I haven't turned into a girl, have I?"

Mitchell's eyes sweep slowly down his body, and where they stop and linger it's as if John's pulse is leaping up to meet them, sweat breaking out in the hollow of his throat and below his ribs and in the dip by his hipbone where his belly curves and disappears into his BDUs. He knows, _he knows_, that Mitchell can see that he's hard because his eyes are dark and faintly amused when they finally get back to John's face.

"Nope, not a girl," he drawls, and sits back on his heels, grinning faintly. "Y'all need to stop ordering shit off the Internet. What was that thing?"

John props himself on one elbow and lets his hand fall open, peering down at the little device nestled in his palm. It's not yellow anymore, and its surface feels cool and flat. Whatever its power source was, it's shut itself off. "Dunno. Maybe one of the scientists can –"

Carson Beckett's voice breaks in. "One of the scientists _without_ the gene, I think. Rodney! Will you have someone come take this thing away, please? I need to examine Colonel Sheppard and – it's Colonel Mitchell, isn't it? Are you all right, son?"

One of the scientists scurries forward and takes the thing from John. Mitchell climbs to his feet and holds out one hand. "I think it may have burned me. Nothing serious."

"Aye, well, we'll take a look at –" and Rodney stalks over and pokes a finger into Mitchell's chest, hard enough to send him staggering back a step.

"You had NO IDEA what that thing was, and you threw it at Colonel Sheppard because _it burned you_? Is it possible for anyone who works for the SGC to be – never mind, I really don't need an answer to that. Carter!"

Mitchell crosses his arms. "I only just noticed…" he starts to say, and Carter puts a hand on his arm and shakes her head minutely.

"McKay," she says.

Carter sounds apologetic, but Rodney's face is thunderous when he turns to face her and his arms are crossed high on his chest. "Get Colonel Chuckles out of here. Find him something to kill that's maybe _not_ the military commander of Atlantis – maybe he could go hunt Wraith with Ronon if he's bored."

"I'm not dead yet," John says faintly, and Rodney looks down at him with a frown.

"_Yet_ being the operative word there, Colonel. Carson! What does your crystal ball say?"

Carson lifts his eyes from the equipment he's holding over John and gives him an unblinking stare. Rodney stops, and then backs away. "Oh, no, no! There weren't any – we would have known if there were nanites – " but his voice has that ragged note John remembers from the time in the jumper with the Iratus bug stuck to his neck, the time he _died_, and then John starts to panic, just a little, even though he's done pretty well so far _not_ thinking about what, exactly, the little thing might have given him.

Rodney leans down to pat his shoulder, awkwardly, and then takes off across the lab, yelling instructions that John doesn't bother trying to understand. Carter follows him, her shoulders tight, and Carson bends back down over his scanner and centers it over John's belly. It beeps slowly and John squirms, not sure if the noise he's hearing is the good beeping or the bad beeping. Breathe, he thinks.

At least his erection has disappeared.

"Calm down, Colonel," Beckett says, "you're going to give yourself an aneurysm – and no, it won't be from nanites. You've got no wee beasties that I can find, although I'll want to draw a bit of blood once we're back in my lab."

"Cool," John says. "Can I go lie down?"

Carson rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. "No, you're coming with me. If you'll give us a hand, Colonel Mitchell?"

Mitchell puts a careful arm around John's shoulders and hoists him onto his feet, and then gets him settled onto the gurney Carson's team has brought with them. "I can walk," John protests, trying to sit up, but Mitchell just lifts an eyebrow and puts a hand on his shoulder, and he lies back down. The hand feels good, big and warm and muscular, like the rest of Cameron Mitchell, he thinks, and then he closes his eyes, because looking up at the ceiling is making him dizzy.

*

"Colonel? How do you feel?" Carson Beckett's voice is back to its usual brisk Scottish tones, and John looks up from the bed he's lying on. Carson is smiling broadly and waving the test results around like they were his mother's: John and Mitchell are both free of anything the med lab's sensors can detect.

John closes his eyes, feeling the last of a tight little knot of fear in his belly uncoil. With it goes most of the sense he's had since then of something crawling under his skin, and that's a relief, too. But he's tired now, in that post-really-bad-mission way, and he wants a shower and a nap. Now.

"Fine, doc," he says. "If you'll bring me my pants I'll get out of your hair."

"You know, I'm usually the one who has to beg for his pants," Mitchell says from the corner.

"I don't really want to read those mission reports, do I?" John looks over to see Mitchell slouched in one of the infirmary's uncomfortable chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him and a faint grin lurking around his mouth.

"I don't know." Mitchell draws the words out, putting a hint of a question into them, one that has nothing to do with mission reports. "How do you feel about twinkies?"

John flashes him a quick grin, wondering if what he's hearing in Mitchell's voice is actually there, or if it's just his imagination. He can feel Mitchell's eyes on his back when he turns around, and remembers the look he'd gotten that morning, when he asked Mitchell if he'd turned into a girl. Had Mitchell really sounded as relieved as he, John, felt when the answer was - obviously - _no_? That thought makes his head hurt, so he slides off the bed and, without looking at Mitchell, wraps the sheet around his waist and goes off in search of Carson and his pants.

Low and dirty, a chuckle floats out behind him. He pauses, and smiles to himself. He's not wrong, then. And that idea's _almost_ enough to put the thought of exploding bathtub toys out of his mind, and send it somewhere else. Soldiers have never really been John's type, too many years of _not_ responding to men in the uniform, but Mitchell is… well, he wears it well, John thinks, the uniform, his command, the whole blue-eyed and broad-shouldered _thing_ that John long ago gave up trying to carry off. And Mitchell's got a kid's wide-eyed glee at the toys they get to play with and he likes to fly and his hand felt good on John's shoulder and might feel even better on John's … oh yeah. John really, _really_ needs that nap.

*

It's later than he thought it would be when he gets back to his quarters. Elizabeth wants a status report and Rodney still doesn't have any news, and he doesn't see Mitchell again after leaving him in the infirmary, which he tries not to find disappointing. In his room, the late afternoon sun is slanting through the curtains and falling in soft lines across his bed, and either he's never here at this hour of the day or he's just never noticed before, but the light has a bright hard gleam to it that makes him think of places he's only seen in photographs. He pulls the curtains open and looks out at the water. Florida or the Caribbean, maybe, one of those places with flat blue water in Elizabeth's travel magazines. Not California in any case, with its dark winter surf and kelp-strewn beaches.

He reaches out a hand to touch his surfboard, missing it suddenly, and then shakes his head. He'll take a jumper out to the mainland someday, teach Ronon to surf. In the meantime, his bed is the best thing he's seen all day. He toes his boots off and strips down to his boxers, and climbs under the covers, and drops off to sleep.

The feeling that he's rock hard and about to come wakes John up and he barely has time to think _hey, a blow job_, before a strong mouth is closing around the head of his cock with gentle suction, lips and tongue and the faintest brush of teeth. John gasps and tries not to wake up, because he loves dreams with blow jobs, and always tries to make them continue.

He wraps one hand around his thigh, feeling the wiry hairs pressing into his fingertips and the play of muscle under his own skin. He starts to move, wanting more, and he's thrusting into someone's _hotwetheat_ mouth, pushing against the pressure of hands on his hips as they pull him forward, urging him _up_, urging him _in_, and there's a loud voice in his ears, groaning and begging and then _jesus_, there's a hand on his balls and one at the base of his dick pressing into the ridge with fast strokes, and John's just about to come when he opens his eyes and sees his own face.

He slams his eyes shut again and drops his dick and lies there, trying to bring his heart rate and what feels like the beginnings of a McKay-level panic attack under control. Breathe, he tells himself, and counts off one-mississippi, two-mississippi, which works for thunderstorms and so should be able to cure what's clearly a serious short circuit or maybe just oxygen deprivation _from having somebody's dick in his mouth_. It makes him feel stupid, but he continues all the way through until ten-mississippi before putting his hand back under the sheet and placing it cautiously over his dick.

Which is faintly sticky and still half hard, and unmistakably _his_. And while he wouldn't say no, exactly, to the chance to touch somebody else's – John likes other guys' dicks, likes the way they lengthen and get heavy in his palm, and likes the little hitching noises their owners make when he runs his thumb over the head and drags it down the underside and -- Huh, he thinks, and pulls the sheet back, staring down at himself.

Definitely his, and hard. He runs his tongue around his lips and wonders if the weird little egg from the morning hadn't messed with something after all. John's had plenty of dates with his right hand – Atlantis' servers boast a truly impressive porn library, and John's not above using his slow grin for purely selfish purposes – but he's never dreamed that he was going down on _himself_. Although there was that one video, some guy with his hair – but no. Just, no. He throws the sheet back and runs an experimental hand up his shaft. It feels good, better than good, and he props himself up a little further to watch.

He usually jerks off in the shower or under the sheets, not in the clear, harsh light from Atlantis' moons, and he's never really noticed how good his hand looks wrapped around his erection, and that's just _stupid_, because he could have been doing it this way all along. He starts to stroke himself slowly, the head of his cock disappearing into the tight circle of his fist and reappearing flushed and gleaming with moisture.

His orgasm starts to thrum at the base of his spine and he closes his eyes to try and back it off, panting through the sparking pleasure that seems to be rolling up his legs and straight into his dick. But it's too close to stop, so he tightens his grip and fucks up into his hand, feeling the weight of it as it slams into his pubic bone, and opens his eyes, wanting to watch as he comes, and sees the muscles in his forearm straining with the effort. The fine blond hairs on his knuckles are damp with sweat and ---

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

John grabs the base of his dick to keep from coming, and drops his head back onto his pillow, staring up at Johnny Cash's big-ass guitar and wondering if he could get a job being a roadie for a touring band, or something like that. Something that involved road cases and wires and free beer in the band lounge. Something that didn't involve exploding brains or turning into bugs or _becoming other people_.

How the _hell_ was he going to explain this to McKay? Or Elizabeth, for that matter? Just the thought of those conversations makes him think he'll never masturbate again. He sighs, and his dick throbs sympathetically.

He raises his hands to the clear moonlight coming in his window. They are definitely his, _now_, long-fingered and mapped by tendons, with a wide white stripes where he wears his wristband and his watch. He lifts his head and gazes at his dick: also still his.

So whose cock did he wake up blowing? Whose narrow hips did he leave Sheppard-sized bruises on when he pinned them to the mattress and ran his tongue over the head of that erection, whose hot and salty precome was he still tasting at the raw back of his throat, whose balls was he gripping as he opened his mouth wide and swallowed --- John gives up at that point, wraps a hand around his dick and strokes, and lets his orgasm pour through him, hard and fast and shatteringly intense.

When his brain comes back online he sneaks a glance at himself, at the mess on his black-furred belly, at the hand resting on his soft cock, both of which look like his, thank all the – and he stops, thinking about the blunt-fingered hands that had checked him out that morning, and rested, warm and reassuring, on his shoulders as he was carried to the medical bay, and that he'd last seen looking as if they wanted to rest other places as well.

"Fucking Ancients," John swears to himself, and rolls up into a sitting position. He keys on his radio and switches it to a private channel.

"Mitchell." The answer is fast but breathless, as if Mitchell's been running, and John _supposes_ he could just be coming in from a run, panting and sweaty and – stop that, he tells himself.

"Hey," he says. "It's Sheppard. You busy?"

"Well," Mitchell says, and John laughs.

"Yeah. I know. Listen, I'll come to you."

He throws his BDUs and a black t-shirt on and he's out the door and into a transporter before he can really think this one through. What the _hell_ is he going to say, and isn't _that_ getting to be a familiar thought, and then he's waving a hand over the controls to Mitchell's door and walking in.

Mitchell is sprawled on his bed, naked except for the thin sheet pulled partway over his hips, and the light pouring in through the windows is painting the heavy muscles of his shoulders in shadows and gilding the sweat-damp curls on his chest. There is moisture caught in the fine hair arrowing down his flat belly, and John can see the fine muscles trembling under his skin. Mitchell twitches the sheet up a bit further, pulling it against his cock, which is lying half-hard against his thigh.

John slouches with deliberate grace against the door, locks it, and sucks in a breath. "Florida," he says.

"Florida?"

"Florida. I've been thinking about fucking _Florida_ all day." John shoves his hands into his pockets. Mitchell's eyes drift down his chest. "I've never even been to Florida – but I bet you have."

Mitchell nods. "Every year. Pretty place, if you like humidity." He narrows his eyes. "Sheppard, what the fuck does –"

"I haven't been thinking about Florida – you have." John pushes himself off the wall and stalks across the room to stand staring down at Cameron Mitchell, who is much, much better looking naked than John had really thought about, all curves and planes and angles in the slanting light. "I haven't been watching while you –" he glances at Mitchell's hands half-tangled in the sheet, "– you have."

Mitchell takes a deep breath and shifts to one side, pulling one knee up. He's getting hard, _again_, John's mind supplies, and he sits down abruptly.

"I haven't been –" he starts to say, and Mitchell interrupts.

"You haven't been thinking about going down on me," he says in his hoarse voice, and lifts his eyes to met John's. They are nearly black, their vivid blue a fine line around the pupils, and John can feel the weight of them settling into his skin and sliding into the arousal coiling around his spine.

"No. I mean – no, I don't usually think about giving you a blow job, but…." John frowns, and then remembers he had a different point when he left his own quarters. "Ancients," he says triumphantly.

Mitchell gives him an expectant look. "Ancients."

John nods, and Mitchell lifts his eyebrow further, and, when John doesn't add anything, drops his arm over his eyes. "Christ, it's like talking to O'Neill," he moans. "Sheppard. What the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

John stares at him. "The thing that exploded when I caught it this morning? The one you threw at me? That's what's doing this," he says. "I think. I mean, you think about something, and I – do too, I guess." He makes a frustrated noise.

Mitchell drops his other arm over his head. "You people are really, really weird, you know that?"

John heaves a sympathetic sigh and slides down onto the floor. From this perspective, he can almost see the entire moon through one of the clear panes at the top of the window. Its twin will be close by, its slightly elliptical orbit keeping them together this time of year. "Look," he says to Mitchell. "If you get the angle right you can see both moons."

"See, that's what I mean." Mitchell sounds annoyed, but he rolls over and gets to his knees to peer out the window. "Now _that's_ cool," he says.

"Yep." John looks up at the moment Mitchell looks down, and the second moon drops into view, and the electricity arcs between them, a shower of sparks that goes straight to John's dick. Mitchell drops down onto the bed and John reaches up to run his thumb down the side of Mitchell's throat and into the still-damp hollow at the base of it, and pulls him into a hard, wet kiss.

"So," John says a few minutes later, breathing hard, one hand on Mitchell's cock and the other threaded through the short soft hair at the back of his neck, "I'm curious. Besides me blowing you, you got anything else you want to think about?"

*

The hiss of his radio wakes John up the next morning, and it takes him a minute to remember where he is. The light is all wrong, rose pink through uncovered windows where John's room glows red and gold, and there's no Johnny Cash above the bed, but there's a heavy arm across his waist, and when he reaches for the radio Mitchell shifts so that his hand is resting on the hollow of John's hip.

"Sheppard," John says, pressing back into Mitchell's chest and yawning.

"I'm sorry, am I waking you up? You know, if you'd gotten a concussion when you fainted yesterday –"

"I didn't _faint_ yesterday," John protests.

"— you could die in your sleep," McKay finishes.

John rolls over so that he's facing Mitchell, and grins at him. "And a bright good morning to you, too, Rodney. What's up?"

He leans forward and kisses Mitchell, nipping slowly along his lower lip and urging his mouth open, running his tongue along Mitchell's teeth until he gasps and lets John in. John brings one hand up and wraps it around Mitchell's head, trying to drag him closer, and Mitchell is starting to move, starting to roll his hips up into John's morning erection, when something Rodney says finally penetrates the pleasant fog of lust settling over John's skin.

"What?" he says. "It's a _dictionary_?" He looks down at Mitchell, whose long mouth is swollen from John's kisses and whose chest has faint streaks of come dried into the hair. He's got his hand loosely wrapped around John's dick and is stroking his thumb up and down the sensitive underside, and John's breathing is starting to speed up.

"What – ah, _shit_ \- what kind of dictionary?" He drags his hand up Mitchell's thigh and pulls him closer.

A dictionary. Right. Even the _Ancients_ didn't need this much help with their spelling.

"Well," McKay says, and his voice is fading in and out, John thinks, until he realizes it's his own breathing that he's having trouble hearing over, and moves the mic away from his mouth. "It's like a virtual reality dictionary, Elizabeth says they used it to teach abstract concepts like.. like.. oh, I don't know, _feelings_ and things that couldn't be adequately represented by symbols or equations."

"Cool," he says. "You learn anything new?" There's a faint huff, which tells John exactly what Rodney thinks of ideas that can't be reduced to equations, and he laughs. "Tell you what – I'll come down to the lab once I'm up, and we'll open one up." He keys his radio off and pulls it out of his ear, dropping it back on the nightstand.

Mitchell raises an eyebrow. "What?"

John drops his mouth onto Mitchell's throat, and kisses his way over stubble and warm, salt-sweet skin down his chest, biting down hard enough on one nipple that Mitchell hisses and arches against him. John looks up and gives him a wolfish grin. "Some kind of VR thing, meant to teach kids to share, something like that." He shifts his attention to the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth until Mitchell moans, "Fuck, _Sheppard_," and starts to move his hips.

John lets the nipple go and settles himself between Mitchell's thighs, sliding his hands beneath Mitchell's knees to pull them apart. Mitchell's eyes are enormous and his mouth is half-open, his chest heaving as John draws his gaze slowly, slowly down the fine golden skin of his belly. Mitchell is hard, his cock flushed dark red and gleaming with moisture at the tip. John drags his thumb over the head and down, and Mitchell arches up into his touch with a groan. "Sharing is nice," he breathes.

"Oh yeah," John says, and wraps his mouth around the head of Cameron Mitchell's cock. Mitchell is close, and gets closer still when John slides a finger between the cheeks of his ass, and when John presses his finger _in_, just a bit, and simultaneously pulls Mitchell even further into his throat, he tenses and thrusts hard and comes and comes and comes.

John swallows fast and pulls off, and drops his head onto Mitchell's belly. Virtual reality, he thinks, but suspects they might have ended up this way anyways, given enough beer, and the excuse of a ball game. He cards his fingers through the fine damp hairs on Mitchell's thigh, watching as faint tremors follow his fingertips. Mitchell shifts and sighs, reaching down to cup the back of John's head, and John leans into the touch.

Mitchell tugs on his hair and he slides up willingly, fitting his mouth to Mitchell's in a kiss that gets more than dirty _fast_, and drags Mitchell's hand down toward his dick. "Fucking Ancients," he says, and Mitchell grunts, and when John comes it's with his eyes wide open and Cameron Mitchell's mouth on his, and the morning sun blazing white through the window.

"You're out of here today," he says when his breathing slows enough to let him talk.

"Yep, mission accomplished and all that, and before Vala smuggles anything else into the cargo hold."

John laughs. "I'll warn McKay. Maybe she could – no."

Mitchell pokes him. "What?"

"I was just thinking you could slip her a couple of those eggs. She could go teach the Ori about sarcasm, or something."

"Oh, God." Mitchell rolls over on his back and drops an arm over his eyes. "Listen, Sheppard, are you okay with –" he gestures vaguely between them "—all this?"

John heaves a sigh. "Only if you promise not to make me talk about it, yeah. I'm good."

Mitchell stays quiet for a moment, then leans over and kisses John before rolling to his feet. "So I don't need to get Vala to steal that egg back from McKay for me."

John gives him a slow grin. "Nah. Couple beers, maybe. The good stuff, though," he warns, "I have reputation to maintain." Mitchell snorts, and they're good, and John vows not to touch anything else, at least until the next time they uncover a box of cool toys.

 

End


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